


Ruptured Altruism

by Aimryax



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Sexual Abuse, Soap lives Prague basically, Trans!Soap, mention only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-25 12:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21356539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimryax/pseuds/Aimryax
Summary: altruism/ˈaltruːɪz(ə)m/disinterested and selfless concern for the well-being of others.rupture/ˈrʌptʃə/breach or disturb (a harmonious feeling or situation).
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Yuri (Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Ruptured Altruism

**Author's Note:**

> I missed them assholes, a mix of vent and practice.
> 
> As always thanks for @llanxeotis for the beta/proofread.

Numbed, but not gone. He can see the continuous cycle of the worn out fan spinning where he was laid down, he can hear the increasing winds of Prague as the night approaches more; the sounds of the evening fading away into the unsettling silence Soap hated so much. He can slightly feel the tingle and twitches of his nerves every once in a while, a body that was still shocked at the very unexpected conclusion.

Chaos is a _small_ word for what happened.

An almost direct free fall, the wound that barely kept itself intact had re-opened once again—even impossibly wider and worse then before. And that was not taking into account the newly accompaniment injures that were bright red, that ran thick on scarred skin and even made the thick cloth of clothes drip. How Soap survived was beyond anyone, including himself.

It was slow and painful, agonising even, even with the words that raised every hair on Soap’s neck and made him face Yuri, wide eyed—he still thoughtlessly threw Yuri first, taking most of the explosion’s impact. From being supported and trying to keep up, to being dragged forcefully as his feet completely gave out by Price’s shaky hands.

Erratic thoughts of whether he should give in to the pain and succumb; or keep forcing painful breaths into his lungs and snap himself back, out of the descending fog of haziness that tried to yank him by the neck, as Soap barely escaped its grabbing clutches by the skin of his teeth.

Soap had thought it was it for him. Inhaling enough air to manage out that last revelation to Price with regretful eyes as he had to depart from his long-sided Captain, thinking that it’s his last time to see anything and anyone, and succumb into the unknown beyond, the afterlife he thought it was.

Saved again by the man whom he had heavily owned his debt—_his life to_.

Opening his eyes after accepting the harsh fact of dying too young was a surprise, leaving him to his wondering thoughts as they were preparing for the infiltration. It was an undoubted fact that Soap was definitely off field this time for a long time; he was still hanging on a wavering line of life and death, blood loss was a thing, unluckily for him.

Physical wounds were bothersome—a complete bitch, sometimes almost on par with the emotional ones, Soap winced again but this time because of this morning, his face scrunching up at remembering.

Soap frowned upon the memory that constantly played in his head alongside his body remembering the pain; the thought of a double agent, hurting Price, himself, or anyone he knew had fired up every single alert in him, especially now. He was not prepared for another loss because of betrayal, not like this again.

The explanation from Price was plausible, but Yuri was still on very thin fucking ice, where his worth watered down to his past connections with Makarov only, and not as a life at this very moment.

But in a weird way, he wanted to hear the story itself from Yuri, from his words, his tone, his face.

First and foremost; Soap was a soldier, who stood up strict and disciplined, he was not some hopeless fool struck in love who blurred lines together to incompetency. Soap knew when he let himself be involved with this thing with Yuri; that he could fully separate it from the field and outside walls, it doesn’t help anyone.

Profession required professionalism; Soap exceeded at that from years. But feelings required vulnerability, something Soap wasn’t so sure of.

This wasn’t a cliche story, and Soap wasn’t an idiot. They were in the middle of a war zone and one of them was a high wanted war criminal while the other wanted peace while he knew nothing of it; Yuri was someone severely scarred and hardened and so was he to some extent, Yuri was not going to disclose and suddenly heal from everything from a few words in a span of two months.

And that was okay.

But it didn’t help in lessening the pain of distrust and explanation of a vague past nonetheless.

Yuri surprisingly managed to get out relatively unharmed in comparison to Soap, not a direct fall, no past injures other than ones that had already healed since India, bruised bones maybe here and there and a few scratches that cannot be brushed off. But unharmed.

That strangely put his mind at ease somewhat, and not just because they aren’t hindered by two people.

Even if the sight of the Russian himself stung his heart a bit.

Even now when he can’t even move his arm to the slightest; Soap felt like he was the judge to Yuri’s executor, the role wordlessly passed on from Price to him.

He wonders what happens if Yuri outlives his value while still not redeeming himself, a _dangerous person_ to have as a nearby comrade.

And a catastrophic person to have as a...Soap won’t go on with that thought.

Ice eyes watched in heavy silence that took upon them the second Yuri sat down in the same room with him for the first time in these extended hours. Inked arms aimlessly fiddled around with bandages that were securely wrapped around pale skin that bruised. 

Face was bowed down the second Yuri sat, only leaving Soap staring at the bowed head of a messy hair. He kept telling himself he’s just waiting for Yuri to raise his head, while at the same time he wished he wouldn’t at the fear of what’s about to come.

A sad attempt at humour with himself upon noticing the slightly bruising cheek, smiling sadly, Price is vicious when it comes to him.

More seconds passed in the suffocating atmosphere, just when Soap took a breath that was different then the others; finally composing himself for this conversation and about to meet those grey eyes when not blurred by pain. He heard the accented voice speak up finally.

“This was unexpected.”

That got a dry laugh out of Soap, how ironic.

“Being found out or me living?” Soap asked mockingly in high defence of his despondency, he was bitter about many things of this, and Soap wasn’t going to conceal anything.

Yuri’s head finally rose up, showing face filled with tiny scratches, a cheek that is taking more of a blue hue and unreadable grey eyes, but not enough to hide the hint of tiredness.

Eyebrows slightly rose up at Soap’s bluntness, but face remained stoic, as if already expecting the coldness. A simple hum in response.

“A little bit of both.” Yuri said unexpectedly after a while, his voice was a bit hoarser then usual. Two dead ends meeting with each other, “I assume you want to hear the uncut story of that portion of my history?”

Well, even if Soap had requested for Yuri to come, the directness of Yuri was still surprising.

“Standard life wasn’t for someone like me; someone refined to be shaped in violence,” at that line Yuri’s face twitched in a hidden emotion, Soap vaguely remembered it whenever the young prisoner spoke of it. “I lived with a simple purpose, serving my country with noble ideals.” 

“Sounds like a good thing,” Soap said.

Yuri corrected, “A good thing from an _outcast_.

“Then I met him,” he continued, “Vladimir Makarov, young and full of ideas yet restricted. Under Zakhaev’s authority. We served in the shadows as hidden supports.”

“Hidden?” Soap questioned maliciously.

“Have you ever heard of the first horseman in Zakhaev’s era?”

_Fucker_, good point.

“Needless to say, Makarov wasn’t so hidden after the promotion since Pripyat, not the star of the show but still someone you do not want for an enemy.” He remarked, matter-of-factually. 

“But power corrupts; if you gave it to someone they will want more and do anything to get it. If you gave it to Vladimir Makarov, he will take it _all_ until there is nothing left and destroy everything with it even if there’s nothing left, _all of it to the ground_.” Yuri ended the sentence with sharpness.

There; there it was what Soap wanted. Price spoke of someone who simply re-told what was heard, Yuri spoke of someone who walked through it all and stood in the middle of the storm, the ever so subtle hints of emotion.

But it was double edged.

Hearing the familiarity in Yuri’s voice, how personal it was to the Russian and how close the betrayal was just like Shephard’s; made Soap shiver. The man in front of him that is filled of shame, was once opposed to him in high glory with no remorse, someone who wouldn’t have hesitated to pull the trigger on him if they ever met as a right hand and a sergeant.

A lie would be Soap claiming that this scenario wouldn’t happen now.

“2011, where it all went wrong, thousands of lives just vanished by one call, by two words, I made a vow to defend and not attack.” An arm raised for grey eyes to look at, as if seeing that there is something missing here, “Even as that psychopath just stepped on the blood of Russia and I _just fucking_—“ A sarcastic laugh came out of him with as an arm dropping heavily with past regrets.

“Hypocritical.” Came the final word that let the past’s effect seep into Yuri’s voice.

Yuri’s expression of grinning at absurdity dissolved into a grim expression, head slowly bowing down again.

His frame now looked smaller than usual, the words that were interrupted because of too much pain made Soap look at Yuri in sympathy, as the pain came from multiple aspects and Yuri was so raw with every bit of it, not just carefully selected words monotonously carried out from behind high walls of trauma.

Deep down, even with the fuckery of a situation they are in and the many doubts; John wished he could take Yuri’s frame in his arms against logic.

An impossible wish at the moment for both of them, the physical aspect was not the reason.

This was too complex, untrusted yet got nothing to gain from any of it, disowned yet assisting, this was complex, Yuri was complex.

“You...” Yuri's hesitant tone felt out of place from the past conversation, and was different, “didn’t push me out of the way because of our...” why was he so afraid of saying it?

Well, that’s pretty hypocritical of John to say. What would he say anyway? Association? Relationship? Connection?

John replied for once truthfully in this tensed up talk, “It’s a habit of mine,” it is, “I threw myself twice for Roach, you aren’t any different.” 

The least he expected was serenity falling on Yuri’s face, the fact that he wasn’t a special case brought peace on him.

What does it mean?

Silence settled between them once again but this time, it tied the knot that Soap tried to untangle so tightly that it would require Soap to tear it. _Truth_ was a painful thing.

_Truth_ made him want to scream at Yuri.

This wasn’t truth, that was the hopeless part of him that couldn’t be settled aside like he did with throwing Yuri firsthand; that was a tactical decision, and what’s left is now something beyond it. 

Something that made John wish Yuri had shown pain when told that it wasn’t something unique.

Whatever he decides it’s called now.

_What a burden._

  


* * *

  


Info gained, mission accomplished.

Finally some good words in this span of hours.

Then it went downhill when the cargo failed to be retrieved.

Being transported only to be grounded more was mildly infuriating; left with a sketchbook that had a few papers remaining, alongside the fact he was left in total darkness, mission-wise, only knowing when they took off and the results, but left with no non-biased details.

Supported also with the fact that his body was going through a very slow recovery. Soap’s lower body was fine, but his upper body was absolutely utterly fucked, if it wasn’t broken, it was heavily bruised. Unlike the stab wound, the fall had ruined his ribs, not even a small chance of properly standing up—_let alone work_. He was getting the proper medical attention to survive, but it was not the professional treatment his body needed to make a full recovery.

Price brought out the big guns, hearing him twisting MacMillan’s arms was amusing, considering the status imbalance between them at the moment.

Nonetheless, Price, Yuri and Nikolai got to work, wearing the heavy equipment alongside the four-eyed NVG and preparing the transportations, quick goodbyes with Price huffing at him in a friend’s warmth, while Yuri hummed at him in a stranger’s coldness.

It wounded him a little.

When they returned, it was a relief to see all of them in one piece, only a few scraps from the told plan and almost cinematically done escape plan. Despite plunging in into deep enemy territory, in the middle of a literal fortress with too much security; a literal hornet’s nest, they had done it, _the mad lads_, how Price does it was something he can only dream of doing.

With the information of the president’s daughter’s whereabouts, Metal team can go after her, this is where they should pick her up.

Emphasises on the word “_should_”, as that failed.

A few hours from now, Metal Team with the lead of Price’s American counterpart; Sandman, and the very much illegal Task Force would be on their way to Siberia in the snow, to rightfully rescue the Russian President and the daughter. What a wonderful trip.

A few hours from now where they get sent deeper into clear danger, high risk of being buried completely underground, metaphorically and literally; led by a disavowed Captain who was wanted across the world from the right and wrong people.

A few hours where Soap might never see Yuri again, where he would finally outlive his own value to the team.

Still unable to move enough to stand up without wanting to scream, his only way of summoning Yuri was to command him into coming through Price, and if Yuri fears something more then god, it is SAS British Captain John _fucking_ Price.

Half-stable meant he was in a better condition than almost two days ago, and more fit to talk without feeling like something is pressing on his chest more than there is pressure.

Once again, they were face to face, only this time Yuri was standing up and looking rather annoyed with being interrupted from his daily routine, to come and talk about something that definitely disrupted his routine.

Yuri spoke, “I thought I told you everything.”

“Well, not exactly.”

A sigh that took the range of a groan, he stood there half undressed with equipment and inked arms crossed; his legs held the many straps of guns and armour while his upper body had the simpler half sleeved undershirt of the jacket. Yuri was efficient, Yuri was _complex_.

Soap tried to adjust himself better on the bed to maintain proper contact, gritting his teeth, holding back a grunt as the usual pain came from the bottom of his spine, only a few nerves away from being completely paralysed, he was a lucky son of a bitch indeed.

And for a moment it might have looked like Yuri stared at him wide eyed in concern, ready to sprint if something went wrong to help. _Might_.

“Look,” Soap started, “I know both of us aren’t the best candidates for this sort of thing.” He said rather half ass-ed, “You have been through shit.”

“Our upbringings aren’t that different, we both are messed up, MacTavish.”

Surname, not even the codename, ouch.

“Oh come on that’s a thing and that’s an entirely different thing; I grew up far from harm, at least had a healthy childhood by Granny. _You_ grew up in prison with no sort of comfort and had your childhood—“

“_Don’t you finish that_.”

The change of atmosphere had startled Soap. Slowly realising how his words were structured, he felt instant dread spread in his chest at the possible implication of that sickening memory of a trauma, he didn’t meant that.

“Don’t treat me like a fragile thing.” Yuri hissed almost defensively, “don’t coddle me like a child because of something that happened thirty years ago, it has absolutely nothing to do with this.”

The wrongly understood words had made Yuri on the edge, the crossed arms had turned into holding a frame that stood in a fortifying position to look bigger and aggressive—not _weak_; it was almost heartbreaking, seeing that stance instantly change after the misunderstanding that was registered into Yuri’s mind, his shoulders dropping into a more open posture, that looked smaller. One blink of those grey eyes, they turned regretful then furious and instantly averting from Soap’s gaze in mortification.

“I’m sorry,” came out the weak apology from Yuri after heavy silence.

A knot has furthered more into tighter tangles.

Soap shook his head impatiently despite his chest getting tighter accompanied with thinly pressed lips, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“What is?”

“This—this _thing_.” Soap waved his arms between him and Yuri as much as his body allowed him.

Too intimate to be just friends, too close to be just fuck buddies and yet too far to be lovers.

That’s half of that _word_.

“I’m not a pessimist,” Soap started, “but what happened to me was Lady Luck basically blessing me with all the missed luck from my childhood. You’re going to a fucking mine tomorrow and I might not see you again.” The hidden words of _leaving_ or _dying_ were kept as they are in the shadows.

“I didn’t take the risk back then in Prague, and that was a bloody wrong move.” For Soap, talking was painful from a physical aspect as well, the moving of his chest that was restricted from bandages and sore muscles were almost suffocating from the inside. 

Yuri looked uncomfortable at the conformation, new area for both of them where ambiguous actions or words have no say in this; and Soap wasn’t free of blame he always escaped it himself, where he wanted to clear up overlapping blurred lines.

“Since months I haven't been sure what we want—what you want,” If it meant facing then so let be it, “whether you want something more or you’re just playing around with me.”

A head snapped to stare right into his eyes directly with an appalled expression.

“Playing around? You think I’m _toying_ with you?” A voice cracked slightly. “My feelings do not exist for manipulation or to extract empathy from you _John_.” The name that was often said in tenderness was said as if it was something to be spat.

“I am many things, and you can call me _every single one_ of them.” Eyebrows scrunched together in anger and a hint of hurt at the accusation directed at Yuri, something that took a jab at something that was still tender despite the rough years.

“But I’m not heartless.” Yuri deflected John’s bitterness in a strong yet very tired voice, “Every minute I have spent with you was true, even if it wasn’t returned.”

John wanted to say many things, things that would hurt Yuri and make him wince, make him feel like his heart about to burst just like him. But John didn’t and never had the intent to hurt, this wasn’t him and he will not start here.

And neither was what Yuri claimed to be.

The words that were directed at him had numbed his dry throat to a few words.

“Why doesn’t it feel like it then?”

He was hurt, he was still hurt; the pain in his voice was evident even if he tried to hide it. John was begging at this point, for anything to happen other then endless mazes with no ends, other then circling each other and never meeting because of the fear that resonated in them for some bloody reason.

Being so scared to open up to someone, John knew that, the losses that took a toll on him one after the another, loss of a soldier, of a goal, of an expectation he was supposed to meet. But fuck, he was hurt, and it was his damn right to be so even. It was unreasonable, and he just wanted to say it all to Yuri but he can’t.

“Why doesn’t it feel like you’re true to _me_?” John repeated tiredly; not as a question but as a last statement as his shoulders slumbered back down, staring again at nothingness as he blocked out everything around him. He won’t get an answer.

And he was right, Yuri stood there looking anywhere but him with a frown, before shaking his head, almost like a machine that had reset itself from an error, his arms dropped and stood straight.

“I’ll leave you to yourself.” Back to point zero, or even before it, a negative. A normal soldier stood where arms simply picked up a weapon that felt so devoid of emotion; before walking out as an irrelevant movement in the background

_Everything’s a mess_.  
  


* * *

  


TV announced the glorified news, minus the bloodshed, minus the losses, minus the grey lines in place that condemned the innocent, whom had died with the thought of dishonour far from their minds. That’s where Soap knew that it was successful; but at the expense of what? 

It’s always at the expense of something, this is _war_.

No, the war has ended. The Russian President stood up with bruises on his face that were cleaned, and his daughter by his side who had an emotional moment of their reunion, restored their place as a force, despite the fact they were redeemed of something they were wrongly accused of. 

No need for undercover, no need for silence and stealth, and no need for them for the world as the war ended.

Wrong, the purpose of this Task the second Soap asked for the files was to end Makarov and as long as that bastard lives the purpose will remain unfulfilled, this is where the war ends for him, for all of them.

But for now, he needs to get back in the fight, and that needs looking out for his health first.

And so the others.

Soap wasn’t supposed to move—let alone stand up and walk; taking a breath with every severe move for his body, knowing that if he did something too fast he would instantly collapse.

It hurt and it hurt but fuck it to hell. They were okay, everyone extracted from the falling mine just barely in time; cargo and both teams wise. Seeing Price nonchalantly shrugging off the traces of debris’s dust off him was a massive relief to his heart.

Seeing the bright red blood that didn’t belong to him soak his clothes from carrying Yuri was not.

Shell-shocked, extremely pale and coughing out blood was the only glimpse he had of Yuri in the past week, but it was clear and loud enough to make Soap distraught, even after he was reassured by Nikolai.

_I want to see him_; the thought kept playing constantly in Soap’s mind, no talk, no sort of this thing, just wanting to see him breathing with a beating heart.

Outlived his value, didn’t earn his redemption and a criminal in the now renewed Task Force, yet Price still yelled for immediate medic as soon as they landed, even comforted Yuri harshly with an undertone of genuine worry.

A hand went to hold his side from the lingering pain, as he walked slowly by the support of whatever was near and sturdy enough to manage his weight, taking sharp breaths as he walked more and more to reach his intended destination, the room being far away from Price and Nikolai’s sight made him smile in gratitude at the coincidence, they would throttle him if they saw him doing this.

A hopeless softie he was, away from the guns. According to Nikolai, he just had the nudging feeling of checking on others himself, a captain.

Gently pushing the door after finally reaching, Soap’s eyes squinted slightly at the different lightning, where ice eyes peeked into the barely lit room that felt like it was in another house.

His eyes followed the scattered furniture that had the light cast on until they settled on the shadow of a figure; Yuri.

Sometimes when he looked at Yuri at his lowest, he saw a mirror of himself, specifically from younger days, a self-destructive bastard who would indirectly punish himself with pushing his allowed pain to the maximum.

There he sat down, on a bed that seemed too hard for someone who barely made it out alive. The covers still left on the side untouched in harsh cold weather, the posture was not right for the muscles to rest.

Proud men loved themselves; and Yuri was _not_ a proud man.

Soap approached him as quietly as he could without startling him, grunts occasionally slipping though.

The frame didn’t budge a bit like it was supposed to, that bad? _Jesus_.

At shift from a chair that Soap wasn’t as steady as he thought, caused a louder sound in the quiet room. Yuri’s frame went alert and rigged, well, as much as it could, before it got too tiring for the body and it went down again involuntarily.

Fear practically emitted from Yuri, not knowing who it was in the room until Soap forced his legs to be directly within Yuri’s sight, Yuri’s eyes went up in panic at the intruder, to soften at the sight of John.

Nikolai explained that Yuri was almost-closely hit by an RPG, opening an ugly wound that punctured through his vest and armour, rendering his legs completely useless and almost himself, dragged by Price with blood practically _pouring_ out of his body. The similarities between his and Yuri’s experience and injury reeked of revolting irony from fate.

Grey eyes looked at him in pure exhaustion, visible eye bags that made Soap ache at the memory of them not existing. For a split second, not long but he was sure of the open vulnerability of that look towards him, almost as if they were supposed to be teary.

They used to be, when John wasn’t there.

Defenceless; body and heart, Yuri managed to let out a weak sound at John, almost like a small plead of something but instantly taken back when eyes went down, hesitant from history. 

Eyes closed with a head settling on arms as a makeshift pillow, overgrown brown hair slightly spread more on inked arms that were scraped and bandaged, only a peek of Yuri’s critical injures from the mine.

The scene was familiar, roles were switched.

But instead of rays of yellow casting over two people who thought they found something, it was darkness with only rays of white blandness of artificial light that strengthened the cold feeling of two people who used to be so close.

Doubts had covered them both endlessly, wrapping around every inch of them, but John himself never doubted his wish for a smile that looked natural on a sharp face nor the wish for sorrow to go away from a roughened yet alive heart.

His knees made the lowest of sounds, as John carefully knelt on the ground next to the bed, feeling pain, but it was almost insignificant now. His fingers moved shaking from weak nerves to move the stray hairs out of the way. The skin felt so cold despite the hint of sweat; nightmares of the past, people perishing at the blink of an eye, ghosts haunting constantly at the nape of his neck.

Yuri was struggling alone silently.

Lips ghosted over Yuri’s forehead, just barely there for a soft kiss, not for himself for a need or any gain.

But for Yuri, he needs someone.

And John’s here for him, always.

They got this, somehow, John’s not leaving Yuri—like this, at least for now until this is sorted out.

The bed creaked when John went to get up and go somewhere else in the room, but a hand that hung ever so loosely to his shirt interrupted him, a small gesture that wordlessly told him to stay yet it showed how the walls were completely destroyed by now, a person just stood in the middle open to anything that comes to him.

Almost instantly; he sat down again by the bed and leaned his head close to Yuri’s, despite the uncomfortable position.

Scarred fingers slowly entwined with inked ones holding tightly, the shape fit perfectly; both of their rough lines and corners just finding solace in between.

_A heart is a soft thing, isn’t it?_ Not illogical, just soft despite the obstacles, despite the bitterness and words, feeling those inked fingers hold him in return gave his mind some peace he hadn’t had since months.

John thinks that he may accept the word without something hindering at him.

_They got this._


End file.
